


A New Sort of Appreciation

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, hurt/comfort, romance, some chapters contain violence/whump.  We should all be clear by now that I am borrowing these characters for private enjoyment, not profit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lines Will Be Crossed

Elizabeth Keen has grown to admire a number of qualities possessed by Raymond Reddington. His intelligence. His decisiveness. His ability to improvise. Even the quixotic causes he favors amid the lawlessness and violence of his daily existence - saving animals or the environment or children sold into human slavery.

But she doesn't admire Red. She's so careful not to cross that line.

Liz is acutely aware of the danger that accompanies studying one particular criminal too closely. Identifying with the subject is a known professional risk. She's also felt the pull of her own criminality, her own dark nature, all too often. Liz has no intention of stepping any further away from the light.

What she did to Tom Keen was an aberration. She's not a younger, female, more principled version of Red. Whatever mold he wants to use to shape her, that's just more information for Liz to use.

Their paths lie forever apart. 

***

It begins innocuously enough at the Post Office. Just another blacklister, another mission for the task force.

"The Miner himself not particularly dangerous," Red comments, pointing at the blurry photograph of their next target. He looks very young. Maybe that's just the camera angle. "But the people who hire him are the worst of the worst. You want to wait for a day when he's not busy."

Ressler scowls. "Shouldn't we catch whoever we find there?"

Red turns on his heel. 

"Donald, you do not want to engage with these people. Collect up The Miner's records, and pursue them from a safe distance."

"So you'll broker an introduction?" asks Cooper, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Yes," returns Red shortly, giving Ressler one last look.

"Who will I be this time?" ask Liz, reaching out and giving Ressler's coat sleeve a little tug, out of Red's line of vision. They've agreed to remind each other to calm down when Red starts getting to either one of them, a private game they play frequently, given how often the Concierge of Crime seems to delight to raising irritation to a whole new art form. 

Ressler's shoulders drop, and his scowl fades. Good.

"An FBI agent, watching from a distance," responds Red blandly. "I'm taking Aram with me, this time."

"Uh, Mr. Reddington?" Aram begins. He sounds nervous.

"Why?" Cooper interrupts.

"The Miner is tremendously skilled at what he does. Data-mining is his life. Aram is the only one among you who can speak his language."

Aram begins to smile, then looks worried again.

Samar folds her arms across her chest.

"So you're just going to waltz in there, make sure the coast is clear, and call for back-up?" she asks sceptically.

"No, of course not," returns Red, turning to smile at her without warmth. "After we clear a series of intermediaries, we will wait for The Miner to obtain the data I have requested."

He smiles around at the assembled agents.

"Only then, evidence in hand, will we 'call for back-up,' as you so mundanely put it."

Liz frowns thoughtfully at Red. 

"Why do you need us for this operation?" she questions him. "Couldn't one of your own people accompany you?"

Red's eyes crinkle up at the corners and his smile broadens slightly.

"Very good, Lizzie," he says. "I need Aram because certain parties have become aware that our Donald here has been seen, introduced around, as working for me."

"So?" 

Liz has her arms crossed now as well. Aram looks both excited and scared at the prospect of the mission. He's probably a little flattered as well. 

"So, I bring him Aram as the next FBI agent on my payroll, provided certain information about him, and his family, can be located and scrubbed."

"What information?" Cooper looks from Aram's suddenly remote expression to Red's smile of satisfaction.

"Information I have planted, of course, Harold," Red says smoothly. 

Liz scowls and feels Ressler's thick forefinger poke her hard in the ribs.

Right. Stay neutral.

"So I'll see you next week, in Hawaii?"

Red tips his fedora slightly to the assembled group, and heads for the elevator.

Liz grinds her teeth.

She admires the way Red commands a room. She just doesn't like it when she's part of the crowd.

And perhaps she'd rather not think about that too hard. How much better it feels when she's standing at Red's side, rather than being just another member of the team opposing him.

Which is however who she's choosing to be, again and again.


	2. An Opportunity

In the elevator leaving the Post Office, Red breathes a private, inner sigh of relief.

Liz needs to be at a safe distance for this one. Her petite, dark-haired beauty is exactly a match for The Miner's last three victims. At least, the ones Red knows about. The Miner goes through new women very frequently.

But he can't pass up this opportunity. Red knows The Miner has done work for the cabal. 

Aram will help him, to protect his freedom fighter cousins. They're just teenagers, and they haven't committed acts of terrorism, despite the months of training in Afghanistan. Red listened very carefully to the recording of Aram's aunt begging him to help her protect them.

"Where are we going now?" Dembe asks him as Red climbs into the back of the Mercedes, tosses his hat onto the seat beside him, and lays his head back against the soft leather. The car is immaculate, such a relief from the grimy, utilitarian interior of the Post Office. 

He looks terrible under fluorescent lights. Red shudders at the thought, and then smiles at his own vanity.

Elizabeth Keen doesn't care at all about his skin tone, let alone his other, less visible physical attributes. Such a wonderful quality, if coupled with any indication of a more personal interest.

As it is, her indifferent gaze is just one more reason to focus on the blacklisters. He's clearly not special to her. Not in that way.

"Now?" he asks. "Out to lunch. You pick."

"Excellent, Raymond. I know just the place."

Dembe loves food trucks. God knows what they'll be eating, but it will assuredly be fresh and interesting, if unsophisticated.

***

"Hawaii!" Cooper sounds rightfully disgusted. "Trust Reddington to set up an operation somewhere that's bound to draw scrutiny from Budget."

Ressler shrugs.

"If you don't need me, I'm willing to stay behind and mind the store."

He's probably worried about getting another painful sunburn. Liz hesitates a little too long.

"I'm due for a vacation back home," responds Samar. "I'd rather not go either."

Cooper frowns over at Liz. Pounds his cane on the floor, as if aware that her thoughts are drifting after a certain arrogant, elegantly clothed figure. It's not fair how perfectly Red's suits fit.

Damn.

"Agent Keen, can you and Agent Mojtabai handle this one on your own? With back-up from the locals?"

What can she say but yes?

"Of course, sir. I'll start working on the paperwork."

***

Aram picks up the pay phone, suppresses his immediate urge to pull out some disinfectant wipes and clean the grimy old receiver before pressing it to his ear.

He dials the number he promised himself he would never call.

The deeply accented voice on the other end of the scratchy line is familiar from recent stories on the evening news.

"Sure, I'll fix this for you," he responds immediately. "Reddington overstepped himself, this time."

"Mr. Reddington has been very helpful to the FBI," responds Aram immediately. "I've received several commendations." 

He omits that only Elizabeth Keen's efforts have ensured that he has been included on the lists for awards and pay raises.

The man on the other end of the phone chuckles again.

"Oh, we'll return him to you alive and useful, just a little chastised," he responds. "You did the right thing to call."

He hangs up.

Aram swallows hard. He replaces the receiver with a sinking feeling that he's made a terrible mistake.

***

Red stares at The Miner.

"Really?" he asks, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. Look at me. 

Aram is turning positively green. Red's never seen his olive skin so pale. If this were a photograph, he'd swear the younger man is going into shock.

"If you want my best efforts, you need to bring me Elizabeth Keen," the slight man responds from his seat in front of the bank of huge, wide, bright computer screens. The Miner is monitoring 20 different sets of differential search results at once. "This man, he's nothing new."

Red's expression goes sour. He can feel the shifting earth between his feet.

"The information I require, Agent Keen cannot provide."

The Miner shrugs.

"I can provide any information you require. Just bring me what I want."

What. Not who. 

"She's not for sale."

Red whirls, barely avoids the glancing blow.

Three armed, masked men crowd into the room. Instead of attacking Red, where he stands wedged with his back to the far wall, they grab Aram, shove handcuffs into his hands.

"Mr. Reddington?"

Aram approaches Red, hands shaking. The others are all out of range.

Red lets out a deep, dissatisfied sigh. Allows Aram to cuff him.

"Really, I don't know how you manage to get any business done ..." he begins, when Aram steps back, his eyes cast down.

One of the armed men throws a hood over his head, hustles Aram from the room.

"He's my associate ..." Red raises his voice in vain. A door slams in the distance. Aram is gone. Red shrugs casually despite the handcuffs.

"He's quite valuable, I assure you."

The Miner looks over at Red. He points with one pale, slender hand, his thin wrist trembling.

"Elizabeth Keen. I want her. You have her."

Red shrugs again.

"Perhaps. In time."

So easy to speak those words. So hard to imagine them ever coming true.

He braces his shoulders against the wall as they come at him. At least one of them will die, maybe two.

He'll never give them Lizzie. Never.


	3. Hawaii

Liz is emphatically not enjoying the beachfront, luxury, high rise condo in Honolulu.

Her previous memories of Hawaii involve a motel in Maui, sunrises and sunsets, ice cream every afternoon. Sam showed her the physical beauty of the islands, told her stories about his service in the Navy that brought each island alive.

She can't reach Aram. None of Red's people have made contact.

Liz hates this.

If something has gone wrong, there are local agents waiting for her call. A tropical posting can't be easy to obtain, so they will undoubtedly be excellent and experienced. But she doesn't know them. They don't know Red.

She finds it hard to trust strangers. Especially after the mole.

This whole thing could end so badly.

***

Cooper calls her with the message.

"Reddington wants you instead of Agent Mojtabai."

His voice is hoarse, a little concerned.

"I haven't heard anything yet. His chip is stable," she responds. 

Liz has been tracking Red's DARPA-encoded chip. It hasn't moved for the last hour.

"Uh? Agent Keen?"

Cooper sounds uncomfortable.

"Is Aram ok?" she asks.

"Yes. Yes. Have a look."

Liz looks down at the screen of her agency laptop to see a short video file appear from Cooper. Aram walks slowly out of a parking garage, hands hanging loose at his sides, Hilton Head visible in the background.

"The Miner sent him out. Reddington asked for you, instead."

Liz shakes her head slowly. This doesn't make any sense.

"Red wants me?"

"The chip has been .. deactivated," says Cooper.

What?!?

"Orders from above," Cooper goes on. "This blacklister, he would be able to pick up our monitoring so easily. And we do have the building surrounded. Heat imaging only shows the two of them now. What you're seeing is probably transient. Some sort of echo."

Liz stares out at the blue water so far below the condo balcony, the white curve of the surf breaking on the perfect pale sand.

"Reddington asked for me?" Liz asks again.

Cooper clears his throat.

"Not in his own words. The request came through ... an intermediary."

It's a perfectly clear, sunny day in Hawaii. No reason for her vision to go so cloudy that she stumbles, grabs at the metal balcony railing.

"I'll do it," Liz responds, swaying on her bare feet, her short cotton robe waving in the balmy breeze. "Give me the address. I'll be there in less than an hour."

Something has gone very wrong.

***

Red returns to consciousness slowly. He keeps his eyes closed. He's lying on his side, his body aching with bruises, but nothing broken. Not yet, anyway.

He's still dressed, except for his jacket and shoes. That's encouraging. 

He curls in on himself as they kick his prone body randomly, without any particular energy. As if they've been instructed to soften him up, for something worse to come.

They chain his ankles together before they leave.

Once they leave him alone, Red opens his eyes. 

The room is small, windowless, with a high ceiling and a low, rusty metal door that speaks to the presence of earlier prisoners.

Their nails have scratched, not bent, the iron-reinforced edges of the door frame.

No water, no drains, no furniture. Just a plastic bucket for a latrine in one corner, a battered metal jug filled with water near the door.

A single foam mattress on the concrete, the brown vinyl cover stained and torn.

There are metal rings set into the floor, into the walls. A hook bolted into the ceiling.

Red crawls over and sits upright on the mattress, cuffed hands in his lap, knees together, assessing the room.

It's designed to be a cell, not a dwelling. Not a place of safety or rest, not with the rub marks on the rings, gleaming bright against the crust of unnameable decay.

They'll chain him up soon. Probably beat him, think up some way to humiliate him. Nothing too violent, nothing too permanent.

He's reassured by that lack of a drain.


	4. Liz Meets The Miner

The condo fills with agents.

"You don't think I should wait and talk to Aram first?"

Liz flushes as one of the local agents, a tall blond woman in a short cream silk sheath that reveals her long, perfect legs, answers coldly without looking up from her laptop.

"No, he's being debriefed at our office before he returns here."

She hates being the smallest, youngest, least experienced person in the room. None of the agents seem at all interested in her take on the situation. Of course, they don't know the identity of the asset involved.

If they did, they wouldn't be so eager to recover him.

Liz unloads the contents of her pockets into her purse, hands it and her service weapon into the keeping of a silver-haired senior agent with a dark tan and steady brown eyes.

"We'll stay in touch with Assistant Director Cooper," he assures her.

Liz shrugs.

"Wish me luck."

Another agent, younger, but equally tan, drops her off on a side street near the building, a massive concrete block that includes parking, foreclosed condos, a department store under renovation, and numerous small shops, many of them closed despite the early hour.

She enters as she knows Aram did, through an unlocked door labeled "Residents Only."

The hall is dimly lit, carpeted but not clean. Plaster dust and bits of construction debris are everywhere.

Liz opens the next door, walks into an intersection between two more hallways. Which way?

"Turn right, Agent Keen."

The voice comes from a small white speaker mounted near the ceiling.

She turns, keeps walking. Follows the verbal directions up and down several levels.

Surely The Miner can't imagine he is confusing her with this elaborate route? Or perhaps he's just waiting to be sure no one is going to follow her inside?

As she approaches yet another identical door, two armed, masked men dressed in black step out from open doors on either side.

She glances from one to the other.

Automatic weapons, but also pistols and other gear belted at their waists, long knives in leg sheathes. The way their bodies move in coordination as they close in on her speaks of some experience in battle together. They search and wand her without speaking to her, their gloved hands thoroughly professional.

So much for the heat imaging. What else is she going to discover inside?

Too late to retreat. Liz certainly hopes Red is at the top of his game today.

She shrugs from one to the other, holds her hands open in front of her.

The man on the right pushes the door open for her, and she walks through it into a different world.

The hallway is cement, painted black. Completely unlit. She holds out her hands, takes a few steps into the darkness. Stops as she hears the door close behind her.

"Which way?' she calls out.

One of the men behind her clicks on a flashlight, the small circle of bluish light pointing to the left. 

"Follow the light," says the voice from a speaker somewhere above and behind her head.

Liz walks a long way in the darkness.

***

The room containing The Miner is different again.

The walls, floor, and ceiling are still painted black, but also adorned with stick-on, glowing stars. A thin young man sits in a large leather chair, wireless keyboard on his lap, ten monitors glowing in front of him. His skin is so pale it glows against his black, open necked polo shirt and black slacks. His long, slender feet, oddly, are bare.

He turns his chair toward her and gives Liz a slight smile, his straight, overly long black hair falling over his pale gray eyes. He barely meets her eyes before glancing away.

"Welcome, Agent Keen."

If the images on the screens were different, she might have imagined herself visiting a college student who loved online gaming. But the screens show no games, just data, security camera feeds, and violent, hardcore porn. 

The Miner only looked young until she looked into his eyes.

The guards settle against the wall behind her, on either side of the door.

Red is not in the room.

The hairs go up on her neck. Her eyes flick back to a screen on the far left. 

Red in handcuffs, sitting on a mattress on the floor. He's in his vest and shirtsleeves, still wearing his tie. He has a pained, sour expression on his face. The wall behind him is ordinary, unpainted cement.

"Where is Mr. Reddington?" she asks The Miner.

The young man tilts his head towards the screen. He's intelligent, observant. 

"He's awaiting his turn," he responds.

"Turn?" Liz asks.

"You came here for information. So go ahead, ask." The Miner gestures towards the array of screens. 

"I came here because Mr. Reddington asked for me," she responds, trying not to think about what a rare opportunity she's throwing away. Red won't give her any answers about her father, but this man?

The Miner's eyes brighten.

"You're in his employ as well?" he asks in an incredulous tone.

Liz shrugs.

"I'm still doing my job. I just get paid twice."

The Miner frowns.

"I see no evidence of those payments," he comments, turning back in his chair toward the screens.

Liz watches as her bank statement, credit card bills, property records flash across the screen. She has been living month to month since her marriage to Tom Keen was annulled.

She laughs bitterly.

"I buy diamonds and gold, with cash," she informs him. That's what Dembe does, at least some of the time. He also invests in some very complicated financial instruments. Liz spares a brief thought to wonder if The Miner could find those, or not.

The Miner spins his chair back toward her.

"What are you saving for?"

Liz smiles. He's meeting her eyes a little more easily now.

"I do want some information, but I need to assure myself that my employer is safe, first."

The Miner frowns. She hears one of the men behind her shift from one foot to the other.

She allows a little desperation to creep into her voice.

"Please, my life will be worthless."

"Oh, he'll be just fine," The Miner assures her. "I plan to return him to you only slightly the worse for wear."

"Slightly?" she asks. She doesn't want him hurt at all. Just seeing him sitting there without his shoes gives her a sick little twinge of dread.

The Miner types for a moment, and the screens begin to fill with images of Liz and Red together. His hand at the small of her back. The way he leans toward her sometimes when they speak. As if he's trying to get close enough to smell her perfume.

Someone has been watching them. Someone who is not the bureau.

"Do you care?" he asks her, his gray eyes intent on her face. She knows what to say.

"He's a lonely old man. I humor him."

"So you prefer younger men?"

Liz widens her eyes, smiles sweetly the way she remembers smiling at Tom Keen, not so long ago.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

The Miner smiles, brushes his long black hair back from his eyes. It immediately falls forward again.

"So ask me your questions."


	5. Slightly

"What?!? They took Liz? Agent Keen? She went in there?"

Aram has finally been released from the local FBI office to return to the condo. He's told his version of the story - The Miner professing disinterest in him, asking for Agent Keen instead, and Aram then being forced at gunpoint to handcuff Reddington - multiple times.

Nobody seems to care about the unexpected presence of the armed men.

Nobody except Cooper.

When Aram reaches him by phone, the assistant director lets out a few pithy expletives and abruptly hangs up on him.

What has he done?

Aram tells the agents he's going down to the bar for a drink. Once in the lobby of the condos, he ducks into the office of one of the leasing agents, borrows a cell phone. Crosses his fingers and dials that number again.

But it's been disconnected.

***

Red is just starting to consider a nap when the door is unlocked and the guards return. He shuffles along, chains clanking, until they decide to drag him. There are two rooms opposite each other, doors standing wide open.

Brightly lit, they both have drains in the center of the floor.

Not good.

One is conventionally outfitted for interrogation - a rolling metal table that slants, trays of sharp instruments, racks of more specialized implements on the wall.

The other just has a bent, u-shaped pipe protruding from the concrete floor, and a high pressure hose coiled against the wall. Two handles to control the water protrude from the wall, so it can be hot or cold.

Red hates the cold. But he has more than enough experience with burns to last a lifetime.

The men drag him into the room with the pipe, chain his wrists to the pipe by looping a second set of handcuffs through the ones cutting into his wrists.

One stands watching him while the other departs, leaving the door open.

"Do you know who I am?" Red asks the remaining guard. The man takes a step forward, kicks out in response. Red barely turns fast enough to catch the heavy blow of the steel-tipped boot on his upper thigh, rather than his groin.

Red sags forward, rests his weight on the pipe for a moment. Fights the tears starting to his eyes. It's just a bone deep bruise, not broken bones. Not yet.

The other guard returns with a tall plastic bottle of water and a handful of pills.

"Take these. Drink the entire bottle," he instructs Red.

He dumps the pills into Red's right hand, holds the bottle after Red bends and awkwardly lips the pills into his mouth. It takes several mouthfuls of water to swallow them all.

Bitter. Grassy.

Red has a good idea what's coming next. The next few hours are going to be very unpleasant. There's no plastic bucket in this room.

As least Aram isn't here to see this.

Humiliation is cheap and easy. There are cameras mounted near the ceiling. The Miner is certainly watching. If he wants to punish Red for not bringing him Elizabeth Keen, so be it.

It seems clear already that he intends Red to suffer, but survive. This has the cabal written all over it.

At least they don't have Lizzie. Aram would never allow her anywhere near The Miner. Not after even a glimpse of the torture being inflicted on small, dark-haired women on several of the screens when they first arrived.

Red looks over at the hose and shivers inwardly. He's getting too old for this.

***

With wide eyes, Liz tells The Miner about her adoption, her missing parents, her inner conviction that her biological father may still be alive. It's not that hard after he starts asking questions. This young man understands how to find hidden information better than anyone she's ever talked to, and she can't help but theorize. 

Liz shares her guesses, even though he shakes his head at most of them. 

Time passes slowly as she stands by the door, watching him search. The guards behind her stand stolidly, with their backs against the wall. She shifts from one foot to the other. Even in low heels, her feet hurt from the concrete floors.

When she was younger she could stand in formation for hours, run for mile after mile.

Her eyes dart from one screen to another.

The Miner asks her for odd bits of information. Multiple screens jump, flash, scroll as he searches with increasing frustration.

"Why do you need so many screens?" she asks him at last, hoping to distract him.

The Miner whirls in his chair.

"Latency," he responds succinctly. "It takes time to load some information securely, without leaving a trace."

He brushes his hair from his face once again.

"And I get bored very easily."

Liz nods as if in agreement.

She's not bored. She's terrified.

Red is no longer sitting on the mattress. When the image of that room cycles through on that left hand screen, the room is now empty.

Where is he now?

If he finds out she's asking about her father, what will Red do?


	6. Worse

It's been less than an hour, and Red is exercising every ounce of self-control he possesses to stand motionless at the pipe.

"Time for another. Open up."

One of the guards standing by the door approaches, holding another tall plastic bottle of water.

"No, thank you, ..." Red begins.

The guard leans down, looks Red in the face.

"What did you say?" he says softly. 

As Red draws a shallow breath, preparing to answer, the guard knees him hard in the belly.

A calculated blow, perfectly placed.

As Red gasps in pain, he loses control, flushing with humiliation despite expecting this. Despite his every attempt at mental preparation.

"Drink."

The guard grabs him by one ear, painfully hard, and then tips the bottle to his lips. The plastic rim scratches his upper lip, scrapes against his teeth. Ignoring the taste of his own blood, Red drinks. At this point, why not?

"Be thankful it isn't the hose," the guard sneers at him, then retreats to the door.

Red clings to the pipe, taking stock. He's standing in a warm, rapidly cooling puddle of urine and filth. He looks down at the dark stain spreading across the front of his trousers. The back, of course, will be worse.

This type of technique is usually a preface to the infliction of pain. Humiliation and degradation will make him less able to resist the unpleasant sensations of whatever they have planned for him.

Lizzie. 

He just needs to focus on Lizzie.

The cabal will tire of this, or the FBI will take some action, and eventually he'll be free to see Lizzie once again.

He'll be dressed in a new, lightweight linen suit appropriate for the Hawaiian sunshine, and a pale straw fedora, and she'll smile at him when she sees him.

His imagination falters briefly.

She'll smile at him. Lizzie may not love or want him, but she wants the information, the blacklisters, he has to offer her.

She'll smile to see that he survived once again. She'll smile because she can keep asking him questions about the past that he refuses to answer. That she knows only he can answer.

The guard returns with a third bottle of water. Red can't help himself.

"Really?" he exclaims sarcastically.

The guard knees him again, harder, lower, and Red collapses and hangs over the pipe, vomiting, soiling himself even further.

And then he still has to drink that third bottle of water. 

***

Liz stares up at the empty screen.

"Is Mr. Reddington still here?" she asks in a low voice, deliberately concerned. "Does he know what I'm asking you?"

She needs to create a distraction. The Miner has failed to locate any new information on either of her biological parents, and he's becoming frustrated. Angry. He'll direct that anger to her, if she fails to provide him with an alternate target.

The Miner spins in his chair again, looks over at the empty screen.

"Oh no, Agent Keen, he's quite busy with something else entirely."

He gives Liz a slow, exaggerated wink. 

"Want to watch?"

Liz swallows hard. Oh yes. She does want to know exactly what is going on with Red.

"Will he know I can see?" she asks.

"Only if I allow him to," The Miner smirks.

Liz shakes her head, keeps staring up at the screen.

The image switches to another room.

Liz watches as Red clings to the pipe, his hands white-knuckled on either side of the handcuffs. As his eyes close, his face flushing, sweating. As he wets himself. As dark slime spills from his pant legs to puddle over his sock-encased feet.

Liz can't help staring at Red's feet. She remembers a case months ago, where Red showed her the designer socks he bought in Milan. There's an irregular little orange pattern on the outside, just at the ankle.

Those very socks, now wet and filthy. 

She watches as Red rocks backwards beneath the next blow, crumples forward over the bar with anguish. Vomits repeatedly.

The guard stands waiting with a bottle of water. The puddle at Red's feet widens.

Liz feels something new gaping inside her, a maw of hate, desire, undirected power. Seeing Red like this changes her, the shock of that sudden awareness reverberating through her being like a gong being struck. 

She's been so careful to keep him at a distance that she's even managed to fool herself.

"Prefer a closer view?" 

The Miner brings up different camera angles on the central screens now, zooms in on Red's tear-streaked face. He has so many cameras in this room; watching torture must be a regular activity.

Liz bites down hard, several times, on her back molar as she stares from one screen to the next. She temporarily sacrificed a crown for the ability to signal in the team.

Whatever information Red hoped to obtain from The Miner, she can't just stand here and watch him suffer. She won't. The plan was to allow them at least eight hours to negotiate with The Miner. The local team will descend if they aren't out by midnight.

The Miner turns his chair as she hesitates, trying to select a response. Liz doesn't want to goad him on, but she needs to stay with him, not against him.

"It must smell terrible in that room by now," she temporizes. Is that why The Miner watches on the screens? Or does he just feel safer at a distance?

"Why don't you tell me?" he responds, looking past her to beckon to one of the guards by the door. "Please escort Agent Keen, and then wait with her for my instructions."

"Am I to be harmed slightly as well?" she asks him in a level tone. Better to know, get that out of the way.

The Miner smiles. "Only if you fail to cooperate. Because I think you will be very useful."

He turns back to his screens, as if dismissing her from his mind.

She doesn't want to be useful. Maybe the team will arrive before she reaches the room.

***

Aram rides the elevator back upstairs and argues with the agents without success. They refuse to trigger the raid. They're going to wait until midnight, unless Liz signals them first.

They don't care about the pornography, or the armed guards who are not, for some reason, visible as heat signatures. Aram doesn't know of any tech that could cloak them, without cloaking the others as well. 

And there are still three heat signatures in the same room, and Red's chip appears close enough to one of them that it must be him.

Aram rarely raises his voice, but he does so on the phone to Cooper.

"They are acting like they don't care what might be going on in there!" he expostulates. 

"Agent Keen can take care of herself," says Harold Cooper in a gritty voice that tells Aram that he's very upset as well. "And I don't think we need to worry about Reddington. Somehow, he always ends up on top."

As he shuts off the phone, Aram closes his eyes and says an inner prayer that Cooper's assumption is true this time as well.


	7. Beyond Survival

Red keeps his eyes closed, sagging against the pole, as he tries to gauge how long he's been here. At least two hours, hopefully. 

The team will be here at midnight. The next few hours will be horrible, but finite. And then he'll be free.

Red finds himself hoping that they drag him into the room across the hall, cut him up a little. He'd much prefer to be covered with blood when the FBI arrives. Less embarrassing, less of a good story. They've seen him injured before.

The door opens and more people enter the room. Red straightens, lifts his head with an effort.

Finds himself staring up into the wide blue eyes of Elizabeth Keen. 

He takes stock of her automatically, ignoring the warmth still trickling down the inside of his trouser legs. She's wearing a lightweight linen suit and a white blouse. She's not being restrained in any way. No handcuffs. Her make-up is flawless.

Feeling his face flush with embarrassment, Red lets his head fall forwards, stares down at her cheap low beige leather heels. She's standing only inches from the edge of the vile puddle spreading beneath him.

"Tell me what you smell, Agent Keen." The voice booms from a speaker somewhere above and behind his head. The Miner. Apparently, Liz has managed somehow to ally herself with him. Red needs to keep it that way.

He's been focused on survival, endurance. He needs to switch his focus, immediately.

Red raises his head, gazes coldly at Liz.

"Shouldn't you be the one chained up, doing my dirty work?" he snarls at her.

Liz flinches, her face whitening. She looks up at the speaker. Good.

"It smells like a sewer in here," she says. Then she looks over her shoulder at the guards, who are standing by the door. Speaks a little louder. "And these guards could shower more often."

Red rolls his eyes to the side, trying to watch as Liz strolls around him. She disappears from view but he can hear the tapping of her heels stop as she pauses behind him, then keeps circling.

"Give him the second set of pills," the voice orders.

Red grimaces as one of the guards approaches, carrying yet another bottle of water and a plastic bag with several pills. The guard looks up at the speaker, then over at Liz.

"Let her do it."

The guard hands the items to Liz and retreats. 

"How many?" she asks, removing the pills from the bag.

Red manages to focus on the handful of blue pills.

"No more than two," he cautions her. "Weak heart."

He doesn't have a weak heart. But he's tried just one before, and it was not an experience he cares to repeat. No matter. The only thing that matters now is Lizzie. 

Without waiting for direction from The Miner, Liz tips the rest of the pills back into the bag and tosses it across the room to the guard.

"Open up," she tells Red.

He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue. Liz carefully places both pills in his mouth, not touching him at all. Lifts the bottle.

He drinks slowly, swallows. Liz holds the bottle at a carefully calculated angle. Not touching his vomit-crusted lips. Just pouring the lukewarm water slowly, steadily into his mouth.

He can tell her mind is racing furiously. Trying to find some angle of attack despite the carefully controlled environment. The trained and competent guards.

Red blinks slowly at her as he swallows the water, trying to convey the message to wait. Be patient.

She tilts her head at him, gives a minute nod. Message received.

"Remove his belt now, Agent Keen."

Red closes his eyes as Liz takes a quick, sharp breath. That audible intake of air could be shock or fear. As her footsteps circle him once more, Red pretends it was desire.

Six hours. Just six more hours.

He needs to stay conscious, keep The Miner focused on him. Not on Lizzie.

***

Liz circles the pipe, relieved to be out of Red's line of sight. She needs to focus on The Miner, pretend she's enjoying this. Keep his eyes on her, and not on Red. Play for time.

She has their adversary pegged.

Despite his vaunted technical skills, the man she met is textbook - personally averse to physical sensations, someone who enjoys building up his victims before subjugating them.

The Miner wants her to feel and seem powerful right now. 

He finds other men intimidating and threatening, so he uses women to hurt and humiliate them, then tortures and kills those women afterward.

Liz can't let any part of this analysis show on her face, however. The Miner is certainly intelligent enough to know exactly what kind of monster he is.

"Move over. I'm not stepping in that."

Liz reaches out, pats Red on the right side of his ribs through his vest. Chains clanking, he edges to the left, out of the puddle, the handcuffs scraping along the pipe. His wet socks leave marks on the concrete.

She looks up at the speaker.

"No gloves?" she asks The Miner.

"Afraid to get your hands dirty?" sneers Red.

"Now, Agent Keen," comes the voice.

Liz can't stall any longer. Making a face of distaste, Liz reaches out and unbuckles Red's black leather belt, then tugs it loose from his belt loops, one loop at a time. Careful not to get her clothing wet or dirty.

She needs to stay clean as long as she can. The Miner identifies with clean.

Her fingertips are damp. She reaches over and wipes one, then the other, lightly on the back of Red's vest. He doesn't react at all to her touch.

"Pull down his trousers."

Liz glances over at the guards as she coils the belt neatly and places it on a clean spot on the floor. The Miner appreciates order.

They stare back at her, weapons at the ready, their expressions hidden by their face masks.

"Stand up," she says to Red, who is leaning forward against the pole. He straightens and she steps a little closer. Fumbles with the closure of his pants as her fingertips brush against him and he reacts at once to her touch. She can't get his wet zipper down at first.

"Impressed, Lizzie?" Red purrs at her, his eyes still closed. "Savoring the moment?"

Actually, she is impressed. Liz can't believe Red can joke at a time like this. And he's playing right into the story she's trying to create. He must know what The Miner is, too.

No wonder he chose to bring Aram with him.

"Disgusted, actually," she responds, allowing her admiration of Red's composure to color her words.

He chuckles mirthlessly.

"Shut him up," comes the voice, sounding a little irritated. 

One of the guards steps forward, and Liz backs away from Red. Watches without outward response as the guard backhands his face hard, on one side, then the other.

Red sways on his feet, obviously dizzy. Clings to the pole for support. His mouth is bleeding again.

Liz approaches him from behind, and peels the filthy trousers down to his shaking knees, leaving Red covered only by loose cotton boxers in a narrow pinstripe. Soiled and clingy, they leave very little to the imagination.

She hooks the elastic waistband of his boxers with the tip of one fingernail, gives it a little tug. Looks up at the speaker.

"Everything, Agent Keen."

Using only her fingertips, Liz rolls the boxers down Red's bare thighs. She can't help but touch him, getting the soaked boxers off. He's improbably aroused. 

The pills. Of course.

There's a huge bruise on his right thigh. Liz reaches out with one fingertip, traces the hot, raised edge of the swelling. 

His exposed skin is so white that his soft, pale body hair appears darker against it. She feels an insane urge to run her fingers up his thigh, up to the jut of his hip, the loose flesh of his belly. 

"Let's start with ten strokes, Agent Keen."

Red trembles for a moment, then he leans forward a little. Acquiescing.

Where the hell is the strike team?


	8. With A Belt

Aram wanders around the condo, but can't settle down and sit.

The warm evening wind coming in from the open glass door to the balcony smells only faintly of the sea so far below them.

The other agents ignore him, going about their various tasks.

He can't let this go on. Not after what Cooper just told him. He has to figure out how to get Liz out of there. The Assistant Director said he would handle the situation through the regional chain of command, but that's clearly not fast enough.

Whatever the FBI or Mr. Reddington do to him afterward can't be worse than what The Miner might be doing to his friend, right now. 

Aram pulls out his service revolver, thumbs off the safety. Two agents turns automatically towards the sound, hands reaching for their hips.

Aram swallows hard, puts the muzzle to his temple.

"I need you to listen to me. Now."

Six sets of eyes are now 100% focused on him. He better make this good.

"Agent Keen will die in there if you don't listen to me," he says quietly. "I can't let you make that mistake."

A senior agent with silver hair raises one palm.

"Son, you don't want to do this," he says in a commanding voice. 

Aram feels his hand shake. The agent closest to him, a tall blond woman, takes a step back.

Good. Let them worry.

"The heat signatures are being faked," says Aram. "You have no idea who is in there, now. And that's not our chip. Someone is spoofing it."

"Why do you say that?" asks the woman in a sharp voice. She's been monitoring the chip on a secure laptop.

"Because his chip is currently not active," Aram responds. "Whoever is sending out that signal had this planned while it was still active. Harold Cooper just told me. It's been going on too long to be an echo."

The expressions of the agents facing him harden. Oh no. They're going to rush him.

"Agent Keen is almost certainly not able to signal us, if this place is shielded so heavily that we can't even read the heat signatures." 

He can't shoot them, any of them.

"Is the asset involved?"

Aram shakes his head.

"No. He's in danger, too."

One of the agents pulls out his phone and starts dialing; another sprints to the door of the condo and lets himself out.

"You believe me?" asks Aram. 

The silver haired man nods.

"Put your weapon away, son," he says.

The call from regional command doesn't come for twenty more minutes. By then, teams are already moving into position.

***

Red holds tight to the pipe and reminds himself to stay focused as he feels Liz gingerly lift the wet, filthy tail of his shirt and fold it up on his back, exposing him fully.

"Count for me," she says. He feels her hand in the center of his back, pressing him to bend forward further. He steps backwards, lowers his forehead to his handcuffed wrists.

Damn the woman. She can't possibly know that she's re-enacting one of the worst memories of his youth.

"Ten." 

Red keeps his voice low and steady for the first three blows. Despite the tears that are already rolling down his cheeks.

"Harder, Agent Keen," comes the voice. "Begin again."

Red shudders. If the guards have to take over, she'll be chained up next to him soon.

"You're just a weak little girl, trying to do a man's work," he sneers, straightening up a little. "I knew a 98 pound red-headed Hungarian who could hit harder than you, she had the most beautiful, perfectly shaped ..."

"Count!" Liz accompanies her command with a hard slap of her bare hand. Red groans and leans forward once again. The warmth of her hand, the touch of her skin. He needs to concentrate on that.

"Ten."

He can hear Liz breathing loudly as the belt fall much harder now, raising welts. She must be using both hands. The crack of the leather against his soft flesh seems so loud.

Red manages not to sob until the fourth blow. 

"Better," he gasps out. Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. He can't distract her.

The edge of the belt twists, catches him high across the back of his thighs, a line of fiery pain traced in his hot, swollen flesh. His knees are pressed so tightly together his legs tremble with the effort. He needs to stay conscious. If he separates his legs at all, bent over in this position, one blow will be enough to cripple him.

Red counts a little faster, just allowing the tears to fall. Not making any further sound. Trying to breathe through his mouth, and not his nose.

One. At last.

And he's still on his feet.

"May I fetch something from across the hall?" asks Liz, her voice breathy, excited.

Red grits his teeth. What on earth is she doing?

"Go ahead," responds the voice in an indulgent tone.

Red takes deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart rate, as he hears the tapping of her heels leave the room, followed by the footsteps of one of the guards.

Liz clearly knows what role she needs to play. If she can stay aligned with The Miner, show Red no concern or mercy, they have a chance to survive this. If they can both hold out until midnight.

He has no illusions about the cabal sparing her life. They'd probably think her torture and death a completely acceptable punishment for him.

The Fulcrum may be keeping him alive, if not exactly safe, but it can't protect her.


	9. With A Crop

Red looks up to see Liz standing in front of him once more. She was gone longer than he expected. 

She's holding a long, very thin leather crop. She waves it gently back and forth. He can't help but follow it with his eyes. She could do some real damage to him with it.

"Good choice," approves the voice from the speaker.

"Show me your hands," she says. 

Red lifts his head, steps a little closer to the pipe. Twists his bruised wrists awkwardly in the handcuffs, palms up.

"Another ten, Agent Keen."

"Kiss it."

Liz sounds almost exultant as she holds the crop up to his bloody lips. Red meets her gaze with an effort. Her blue eyes are shining and as she lifts the crop to meet his pursed lips he can feel the rage shimmering off her.

So beautiful. So perfect.

"Count," she whispers.

Red grits his teeth for a moment. Hopes against hope that she can manage not to break his fingers, pinned at a vulnerable angle against the metal of the pipe. 

She glares at him, raises the crop.

"Hold them out for me," she orders him.

Beautiful, perfect, intelligent Lizzie.

He tries to slide his hands forward but the cuffs are so tight. Liz reaches out with the butt of the crop, tucks it under the edge of the handcuffs, pulls his hands forward and up. 

He admires how careful she's being not to touch him. To stay clean. 

His palms are raised in the air now. Red has space to move them now. Absorb the force of the blows.

Ten.

He rocks on his feet with the pain of the strike. So many parts of his body are hurting now that the shock seems to roll up his arms, spread through his chest. He'd have gone unconscious long before this, if it weren't for Liz. He can't let them start on her.

"Kiss it."

She's holding the crop out again, this time with one hand. Her other palm is raised, ready to strike him across the face if he refuses. Red tilts his head slightly.

Doe she want him to refuse?

Her eyes slide down to the crop.

No. She's trying to buy time.

He bends his head forward, kisses the crop. Imagines he's kissing her fingers, her lips.

There's something new in her gaze as he looks up to find her watching him. Fear. Almost horror.

Of course she's horrified and disgusted. What else would he expect?

If Red wasn't appealing to her before, in all his wealth and charm and power, how much less attractive must he be covered in his own vomit and waste, sniveling naked in front of her? He closes his eyes and endures.

Nine.

Masochistically, he opens his eyes as he kisses the crop again, tasting his own blood. 

She's fully in control of herself once more, her expression grave. Neither disgust nor pity visible.

She hasn't broken any of his fingers. Not yet.

****

Liz wields the crop carefully, trying not to think about what she's doing in anything more than the abstract. Red won't look at her again. He looks so bleak, so ashamed.

Ten strokes on his hands. His feet should be next.

But she's still hoping the task force is almost here. Better if he can walk out under his own power. So she won't suggest it.

One.

Red grunts in pain at the last few blows, but doesn't speak except to count. 

"Ten more," says the voice. Liz looks up, surprised. Red's hands are a bruised, bloody mess. 

"In exactly the same pattern as the belt."

Liz circles around the pipe, examines the wide red welts carefully. Taking her time. Only two are oozing, the rest are just marks. 

She sets one hand on Red's upper back.

"Bend forward," she tells him.

He can't grasp the pipe this time, but he shuffles his chained feet back toward her, bends forward just a little.

"More." 

Liz raises the crop, sets it in the center of one of the welts. She can't get the angle correct in this position.

His body quivers, then begins to shake as she trails the end of the crop up the outside of one thigh and down the other, then slides it between his legs. Traces the inner skin of his thighs upwards from the filthy tangle of his clothing still bunched at his knees.

"Bend forward," she repeats. Red braces himself on his forearms, his head turned to one side, and leans a little more. She walks to his side, looks down at his pale face. He looks a little shocky, but the corner of his mouth quirks up when he sees her peering down at him.

"Ten," he whispers hoarsely.

"Now, Agent Keen."

Liz takes her position, lays the crop lightly along the welt, ensures she has the right angle. She's sweating into her linen jacket by now, but she doesn't want to remove it, because her white blouse is filmy thin gauze that reveals her lacy white bra. 

She doesn't know what The Miner will do if she misses a stroke. She doesn't want to find out. She can't attract any negative attention.

"Louder," she says.

"Ten."

Red's voice trembles.

He screams once when she strikes him, a high, thin sound, rocking up onto his toes as if lifted by the blow of the crop, then falls silent. At least he's not begging. They have hours to go, yet.

Liz swallows hard, trying not to vomit. She can't save Red. She can't stop this. Can't offer to take his place.

Based on the pornography The Miner enjoys, she would immediately be subjected to so much worse. 

She lays the crop along the welt lowest down on his shaking thighs. Bends her knees a little.

"Nine."

She swings, waits for the scream. Just a little pant of pain. Almost a whimper. Red sags forward.

"Faster, Agent Keen."

Liz lays the crop against the next welt, whispers to Red.

"Faster."

"Eight."

Faster is much worse.

He's still sobbing long after she finishes.

Liz steps back, breathing hard. Blood is trickling down his legs, and his knees are shaking so hard she half-expects him to fall.

She can't believe he's still fully aroused despite the pain. It's been more than an hour. That can't be good for him.

"Time to show him a little more intimate attention."

Liz leans to one side, reaches around, makes a show of lifting Red's shirt out of the way with the tip of the crop.

"I can't get much of an angle here," she comments, lifting the shirt a little higher. She looks over at the watching guards. "Maybe you could cuff him in a different position?"

"Take him across the hall. Don't start without me. I'll be right back."


	10. Unbearable

One of the guards departs.

Liz swallows hard. Glaces over at the remaining guard to see his eyes trained on Red. She lifts the shirt a little higher with the tip of the crop, reaches over with her left hand and unbuttons it from the bottom until it gapes, leaving Red completely exposed.

He has stopped sobbing by now, but he whines through his teeth as the shirt falls open.

Footsteps. The guard has stepped away from the door.

This is it. She's got three narrow scalpels that she palmed from the room across the hall when she selected the crop. She planned to use them as lock picks, but now they're going to have to serve as weapons.

She can't count on Red for help. His hands are a mess, his ankles are chained together. But what The Miner wants her to do to Red next is unbearable.

"You should have told me the truth about my father when you had the chance," she says to Red, running the tip of the crop idly up and down the front of his thighs as he whines in between every tortured breath. "Since I'm probably going to end up like him. Very soon."

The remaining guard is standing and watching her gestures with the crop intently.

She hears Red's breath catch. His whining ceases. Message received.

Liz expects to end up dead.

The guard tosses the handcuff keys to the floor. Raises his weapon and trains it on her.

"Unlock him, slowly."

Liz bends and scoops them up, smiles her widest smile. Keeping the crop between Red's shaking thighs.

As she swiftly unlocks the handcuffs with her left hand by feel, not looking, she taps Red very gently with the tip of the crop. Brings it back swiftly, stops just short of striking him.

The guard stares down, his eyes bright and intense. Watching the crop.

Liz lowers the crop to the floor, taps it once.

Then again, harder, as the second set of handcuffs unlocks. Red shifts towards the bar.

"No, please, no," he whispers in a broken voice. Bends his face down towards his bloody hands. Good. He's managing to hold onto the cuffs. She pushes the key into his hands as well.

"Shall I do it?" Liz asks the guard, slowly raising the crop up between Red's legs. She holds it in place for a moment, the way she did with the welts. 

"No, no," Red begs. He's up on his toes again, trying to get away from her. So convincing.

The guard stares for a moment, glances up at the silent speaker, then nods.

"Do it," he says hoarsely, his eyes glistening.

Liz lowers the crop, tenses her arm, then suddenly drops the crop to the floor.

"Wait, the belt first!" she exclaims.

She turns away, bends down to pick up the belt. Turns back to see the guard with his weapon still pointing at her.

Red slumps to the floor, his handcuffs falling loose. As the guard starts to turn to the sound, Liz throws one scalpel, then the next, seating them in the guard's throat.

Red comes rolling to his feet, panting in agony. Stomps the guard once in the chest with his heel. The guard stops writhing and falls silent.

"This is a very bad idea, Lizzie," Red growls at her in a voice filled with pain. He tries to reach down to his trousers, but his hands aren't working.

"Not as bad as the alternative," Liz answers him.

She scoops up the guard's weapon, slings the strap over her shoulder. Unhooks the flashlight from his belt. Retrieves the bloody scalpels from his throat and tucks them back in her pocket. 

Red is still trying to make his hands grasp.

"Let me do that."

Liz pulls up Red's boxers and then his pants, wet and filthy. He's so big, so hard, so responsive, arching and straining against her fingers. She tucks him inside the wet fabric with an effort, gets the zipper of his trousers partway closed before it sticks.

"You go ahead," Red tells her, breaking away from her touch and starting to hobble in his chains toward the door. "Get out of here, Lizzie."

"Not without you," she responds. 

She reaches the door before Red, kneels at his feet to pick the lock on the filth-encrusted chains around his ankles. She's just gotten it off, she's about to open the door, when the building shakes with the boom of an explosion.

Finally.

***

Red pauses in his tracks as Liz sags against the door instead of opening it.

"It's the local FBI," she says in an exhausted whisper, lowering the automatic weapon a little. "We just need to wait for them. Get you to a hospital."

Red gives her a withering stare. The best he can manage given his bruised, tear-encrusted face. 

"I'm certainly not waiting around here in this condition. And I don't need a hospital."

She gives him an incredulous look.

"You think you can sneak out of here in the middle of a raid?"

"I do have an exit planned," Red informs her. He always has an exit planned.

"One you didn't share with us?"

Red shrugs, then winces. Dabs at the blood dripping from his lips with his wrist, leaving smears on his cuff. 

"I doubt they'll locate The Miner, given the amount of noise they're making," he responds. "Do you really want to wait around here and explain this mess to them?"

He gestures back at the dead guard. 

"Damn," says Liz with feeling. She backtracks to the pipe, picks up Red's belt and shoves it in her pocket. "OK. Let's go."

Red smiles to himself. It's a such foolish little thing to find so entrancing, that she doesn't dither. Just makes her choice and gets in action.

"There's a hidden door that opens into some shops," he informs her. "Hold the light and follow me."

Moving hurts, more than standing still, but Red just sets the pain aside. Later. He'll have plenty of time to suffer later.

They go up, down, back up again through the maze of unlit passageways without meeting anyone. Liz holds the light steady in front of his feet as she follows him, every step increasing his agony. His wet socks slap against the floor, leaving traces of their passage, but he doesn't want to stop long enough to ask her to remove them.

The panel is just where he expected it to be, and soon they're emerging onto a narrow street lined with shops. Tucking the automatic weapon under her arm, just barely concealed by her suit jacket, Liz stares around with an expression of confusion.

It's twilight, only a few stars visible overhead in the deep blue arc of the low, wide sky. The street lamps are lit.

"This is not the right block," she says, looking up and down the street.

Several people pass, circling wide around them.

"We went under the road," he answers her. He smells and looks terrible. There are multiple sirens, much too close. They need to get away from here.

Liz steps into the street, points the automatic weapon at a cab driver, a heavy-set man with rose tattoos covering his neck.

"Out," she says. The cab driver raises his hands, opens the door, and flees.

Red steps to the back door and tries to open it, his hands leaving bloody smears.

"Get in." Liz pulls the door open and he crawls inside on all fours. She slams the door behind him. Gets in front and starts driving.

"You may want to put on your seat belt," she remarks, pulling out onto a wider street and accelerating.

"Can't sit," Red pants back at her. He's leaning on his elbows and knees on the back seat, surely an undignified position, but it can't be helped. If he sits down he'll black out from the pain. "Need to give you directions."

"This taxi is too noticeable. I'm going to get my rental."

"You have a rental car?"

Liz was picked up at the airport by local agents. What is she talking about?

She glances over her shoulder at him.

"You don't know everything about me, you know," she remarks in a conversational tone. "I rented a car the day I arrived. Just in case I had time for a little sightseeing."

Sightseeing? What was she really planning to do?

The taxi jounces into the darkness of a public parking garage.

The attendant, unshaven in an orange ball cap, looks past Liz at him, dubiously.

"He OK?" the attendant asks, as Liz holds out her hand for the ticket. Passes him a few bills from the cab driver's stash of tips in the glove box.

"Bondage is a lifestyle, not just a game," she informs the attendant in a snotty voice.

"We close at six," he calls after her as she speeds away up the ramp. 

Red hangs his battered head and laughs, coughing as his deeper breaths carries the stench of his body further into his lungs. He gags as quietly as he can. Liz doesn't seem to be reacting at all. Probably an adrenaline high. He envies her that, along with her youth, her clean clothing, her steady hands on the steering wheel.

"Where are we going?" she asks him, turning and turning as they ascend to the top floor of the garage.

Red draws in a deeper breath at that request.

Not 'where am I taking you?'.

Perhaps Liz understands on some level just how badly he wants to crawl away into the deepest, darkest hole he can find, and hide.

"Dembe rented a few safe houses," Red responds, after carefully running through all the options in his mind. "We need the one furthest from town."

"Agreed," says Liz shortly, pulling the taxi to a stop next to a small white SUV. "Do you want to get in back again?"

She punches in a code on the door pad, pulls the key with its dangling plastic rental car tag from beneath the front seat.

Red crawls carefully backwards out of the taxi, tries to stand but can barely manage to crouch. The bruise on his thigh is pulsing, and he can feel a hot trickle of blood running down the back of his legs as his cuts open up when he moves. The brush of the cold, wet fabric against his groin is so unpleasant Red has to stop and take short, shallow breaths. He's over-engorged, over-sensitized. 

"Yes," he responds, aware that his voice is too deep, too unsteady. "As quickly as possible, please?"

Liz shuts the door behind him, then climbs in front with a fistful of tips. Starts the SUV and backs it out, heads for the ramp at exactly the recommended speed.

"Just tell me where to turn."

"Head for Wheeler, then take 803," says Red, swallowing hard against the nausea. "Turn left on the dirt road with the yellow mailbox."

"A dirt road?" Liz asks. 

Red shivers. 

"There's a gate. A yellow gate. I have the gate code."

His voice sounds all wrong. Red turns his head to the side, vomits helplessly onto the floorboards. Retches again and again.

It's the smell. He can't bear the smell of his own body. Somehow, the acrid tang of the rental car's air freshener makes it worse.

Red can't imagine what Liz is thinking or feeling right now. Or more accurately, he won't. He just won't. He's beyond pathetic.

"Take deep breaths," she says, as he feels the SUV accelerate forward. "Hang in there, Red."


	11. Sanctuary and A Shower

It's dark by the time they reach the first of the three yellow gates. Red gives her each code as they pull to a halt.

There are a few faint lights to the right when they enter the property, and the flames of a bonfire to the left more than a mile later.

Then nothing. Pure darkness.

Dirt tracks cross and bifurcate as they crest low hills, some barren, some covered with tropical scrub. At each intersection, she slows and describes the scene to Red, who tells her which road to take.

Liz has almost concluded that they are driving in endless circles when they reach a final gate.

It's tall, and the fence on either side extends away into the darkness. Game fencing, reinforced with barbed wire.

"Does it say #14 on the lock?" Red asks her. His voice is hoarse with pain.

They haven't really talked during the drive. Liz turned the radio to a classical station, more to block out the sound of Red's labored breathing and occasional spells of retching than to listen to the music.

She stops only once, at a pay phone, to leave a voice mail for Cooper to tell him that she's with Red. That she'll be in touch once it's safe. 

She hopes they'll be safe. She only has one clip for the weapon.

Liz leaves the SUV running and examines the lock in the light of the guard's flashlight.

"Yes."

She puts in the code, swings the gate open and drives through. Climbs out and locks the gate behind them, putting the lock and back exactly as it was.

"How much further?" she asks Red. 

"Less than a mile. It may be a little steep."

Steep and narrow and poorly graded. They creep along upwards until a small wooden building comes into view, a dark outline against the starry night sky. A line of three cinder blocks denotes the end of the dirt road.

Liz pulls to a stop and shuts off the engine.

In the light of the headlights she can see a small pavilion with a metal roof, an empty fire pit with several white plastic chairs set in a circle around it.

"What is this place?" Liz turns in her seat and stares back at Red.

He's shaking all over, his forehead pressed into the seat cushions. Too much jolting.

She can't break down. She has to be strong for both of them.

"I'm going to get some lights on, run hot water for you in the shower," she says.

"Candles," says Red. "We're off the grid."

"What?"

Opening her window, Liz flicks on the flashlight and surveys the scene.

A profusion of palm trees and lush tropical landscaping.

A narrow, stone lined path curves up to the door of the tiny building. Glass candle holders dangle from the eaves.

There's an open outdoor shower, complete with more candles and what appear to be several wind chimes, and beyond it, a narrow little building that can only be an outhouse.

"Tell me this place has hot water." 

"Solar. Will you let me out now?"

Liz climbs out, opens the back door.

Red cautiously starts to edge out of the back seat on his knees and elbows. Liz is afraid to touch him, afraid to even offer to help.

He puts one foot down, then shivers violently.

"Give me a minute?" he asks her. "I'll be right along."

She's just standing there watching him struggle.

"I'll light the candles, figure out this shower," says Liz. Leaving Red feels horrible. She doesn't want to let him out of her sight.

"The key is under the mat," he calls out as she makes her way up the path. 

The key unlocks a tiny one room cabin, just a few hundred square feet.

Liz finds a box of matches and more candles, including a metal candle lantern, on the counter as she steps up into the small, bamboo-paneled space.

There's one double bed, neatly made up, a round table with two chairs, and a tiny, rudimentary kitchen. 

In the center of the kitchen floor sits a large white ice chest with two pieces of very familiar leather-trimmed luggage on top of it.

Red's brand of luggage. Clean clothes and the extensive first aid kit he always carries with him.

"Lizzie?"

His voice sounds a little plaintive. What is she thinking? She's taken their only flashlight, stranded Red in the dark by the car with just the headlights for illumination.

"Coming," she calls back, hastily lighting several candles. No sign of Dembe or his luggage at all.

Liz looks over at the bed and shivers, almost dropping the candle lantern. They're all alone here.

Turning off the flashlight to save the battery, she sets it on the bed, stuffs a box of matches in her pocket, and heads back down the path.

Red is on his feet, stumbling slowly up the path. Finding his way by carefully touching one foot at a time, step by step, against the stones lining the edge.

He blinks at her as she lifts up the lantern.

"Your things are here," she informs him. "Shall we go straight to the shower?"

He gives her a sharp nod, biting at the inside of his cheek.

She turns off the headlights, not bothering to lock the car, then precedes him slowly, holding the lantern high.

The outdoor shower is merely a bamboo frame with a shower head mounted on one end, a hose disappearing in long loops up onto the roof of the pavilion. No curtains for privacy, although there are a few round metal curtain hooks left to indicate that there might have been, once.

The floor of the shower is polished stones set in cement.

Liz sets the candle lantern on a narrow wooden ledge beside several folded white towels. Lights a few of the row of glass-encased candles sitting on the shelf above them.

She can see there's a white bar of soap in a basket below the shower head. All the candles are white as well. 

Red is breathing hard, fumbling at his neck. Trying to remove his tie.

Liz reaches over, turns the handle on long enough to ascertain that the water is warm. Not hot, but still acceptably warm.

"Red, give me a second and I'll help you with that."

She pulls off her jacket, folds it onto the bench below the shelf with the towels.

"Lizzie? What are you doing?"

Red's voice quavers oddly.

She kicks off her heels, starts unbuttoning her blouse.

"You may have a whole suitcase full of clean clothing, but I have to wear this again tomorrow," she informs him. It's not as if he's never seen her body before - she's quite sure Mr. Kaplan collected the Apple Man's tapes and provided them all to Red.

She slips out of her bra, folds it and her matching panties under her slacks. Steps naked to stand in front of Red, who has abandoned his efforts with his tie and is just standing there watching her.

"Lizzie, I don't know what to say," he says, tilting his head to one side. "You've surprised me once again."

He sounds like himself for a moment, and in the darkness, she can barely see the stains on his clothing, his damaged hands, his grimy, tear-streaked face.

Liz almost laughs. That's Red. He always has to say something, to get in the last word.

She shakes her head.

"Just stand still and let me do that," she says, reaching for his tie and beginning to undo the knot. Ignoring the occasional brush of their bodies touching as she removes his clothing, piece by piece, and drops it to the ground, until at last she's kneeling at his feet, peeling off one sock, then the other.

He stands in front of her, with his damaged hands covering himself, shivering despite the warmth of the moist night air.

"Well, come on."

Liz steps into the shower, turns on the water, sighs in relief as it sluices warm over her body. She picks up the soap, starts lathering herself up quickly.

"Lizzie?"

He's still standing there, hiding his arousal as if he's afraid to somehow offend her.

"Red, please come in the shower with me and let me get you cleaned up."

Liz tries not to make it sound like an order, but she's already rinsing off and she doesn't know how much water they have available here.

He steps forward slowly, turns his back to her as he reaches the thin spray.

In the candlelight she can see not only the famous burn scars that have fascinated her fellow agents, but also an array of bruises mottling his damaged skin.

"This is going to hurt," she warns him, as she starts carefully soaping him from the neck down. She's as quick and gentle as she can be, but she has to get him clean. Liz tries for thorough, yet professional, but keeps catching herself crossing the line, her soapy hands sliding over him in blatant caresses.

"Turn around," she says as soon as she finishes, her voice coming out deep and husky.

He turns with evident reluctance, leans forward into the spray with his eyes closed. He's trying not to look at her, clearly unhappy that she's looking at him. But it can't be helped.

None of her rare yet unnervingly intense sexual dreams about Raymond Reddington have ever come close to this surreal, candlelit scene.

"Keep your eyes closed," she tells him. He nods, trembling as she steps closer, the spray splashing off her body.

Liz runs her soapy hands gently over the curve of his head, down over his familiar features. The soft oval line of his face, his sensitive lips, the arch of his pale brows.

His broad, deep chest rises and falls with the increasing depth of his breaths, marked like the curve of his belly by an impressive assortment of darkening bruises.

She reaches for his wrists, encircles them with her fingers, soaps the deep purple marks left by the handcuffs. Tugs them gently to the side, opens his bleeding palms to the water. 

Red holds his shaking hands up, cups them, letting the water spill between his fingers. Keeping his eyes closed.

Liz reaches for the soap, slicks her hands, lowers herself to a squat and carefully washes Red's thighs and lower legs.

She needs to touch him soon, the water is starting to cool. She knows it. He knows it.

But he has to ask her. Everything she's done up to this point, every touch of her soapy hands, each intimate, invasive thing, she can find a way to justify.

But not this. Not given the way she feels about him, right now.

"Please, Lizzie."

His voice sounds horrible. Shaking. Abject. Not like him at all. 

Still kneeling, she reaches up, slides her soapy hands over him. Not sure whether to be gentle or rough. Terrified she's going to hurt him. That it won't work. That he's damaged already.

"Please. Please."

She smell the fresh blood dripping from his hands. He's so thick, so hard in her grasp.

"Please. Please."

That horrible begging. 

He leans forward, closer, the water sluicing down over them both and washing the soap away.

She's about to reach for the soap again when the water dries to a trickle, stops.

"Lizzie, please."

His eyes are tightly closed and his mouth is half-open, his lips curled back from his teeth.

It's the only thing she can think of. He can hate her afterward, if he wants.

Liz lays her palms on his thighs, opens her mouth and takes as much of him as deep as she can. Sucks him hard without relenting, doing her best not to choke, as her hands urge him, coax him. 

"Lizzie!"

He's finally moving with her now, spasming almost at once, then again and again. The sensation is amazing, especially when combined with his harsh groans of relief. He's going to be alright.

Liz closes her eyes, memorizing the feel of Red, the taste. She can feel him leaning against her palms, the muscles of his thighs bunching and releasing.

"Lizzie? Could I trouble you to pass me a towel?"

She opens her eyes, blinks up at Red. He's looking over at the shelf with the towels. Not looking down at her.

"Of course."

She gets up off her knees and fetches towels, wrapping one around her and then spreading another over Red's shoulders before patting him dry all over. Drying his hands last of all.

Her efforts leave the towel bloody and she tosses it atop Red's clothes on the wet cement. He limps off in the direction of the house, a flickering yellow glow spilling from the small kitchen window, while she blows out the candles on the shelf, collects her clothing, and follows slowly behind him with the candle lantern. 

Raymond Reddington.

His bare head, the loose white towel like a cloak over his shoulders, and below it his naked body, the curve of his generous waist, the elegant proportions of his legs. 

She's going to sleep in the same bed with him tonight. With the taste of him still on her tongue.


	12. Conversations Before, During, and After Sleep

"The first aid kit should be in my smaller bag," Red informs her. He's standing in the kitchen, holding his hands palms up, the towel around his shoulders threatening to slide to the ground. Liz sets her clothing on one of the chairs and pulls out the kit.

Red beams at her when she places four painkillers in his mouth, as requested, rather than the maximum of two suggested by the prescription, then lifts a bottle of water from the open case on the kitchen counter to his lips to help him drink.

"There's antibiotic with pain relief in the next tray," he points out helpfully.

She bandages his hands, coats his other injuries with the antibiotic as he shifts from one foot to the other. Making no sounds despite the pain evidenced by his constant trembling as she touches him.

Her own towel is starting to slide off. 

"Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow, to sleep in?" she asks him.

"Help yourself," he says, in a quiet voice. "Help yourself to anything."

He's looking away again.

Liz fishes a clean white T-shirt from the smaller bag, drops her towel, and pulls it over her head. Picks up the towel and dries her hair briskly.

"So much better," she announces.

She retrieves a pair of boxers and another T-shirt, holds them up for his inspection.

"Just the shirt, Lizzie."

She looks at the boxers, shrugs, and pulls them on herself. They're too loose - she has to knot one side to keep them on.

The soft fabric of his clothes feels good against her clean skin.

Liz removes the towel from Red's shoulders, then carefully guides his damaged hands through the sleeves, pulls the shirt down over his head. It's almost long enough to preserve his modesty.

She hangs both their towels on the backs of the chairs to dry before drinking a bottle of water. There's probably food in the ice chest. But she's not hungry at all.

"Shall we venture out to the outhouse?' she asks him.

Red looks wearily around the small space. There is clearly no bathroom.

"Lead on," he assents.

Liz leads the way with the lantern. Barefoot, they step from one smooth flat stone to another. He's slowing now, even slower on the way back.

"I'm more than ready to sleep," Red announces, once they are back in the house.

Liz folds the covers all the way back. He crawls onto the bed using his elbows and knees, settles with a grunt onto his stomach.

"I usually sleep on my back," he informs her. "Just give me a poke and wake me if I move around too much."

He's taking up much more than half the bed. Liz covers him, blows out the candles, feels her way to bed in the dark.

She slides in at his side as if this was totally normal. Today has been so far from normal that everything seems equally unreal.

She killed one man. She beat another man bloody. She's on the run from both the FBI and a sadistic psychopath. She's in bed with Raymond Reddington.

If he's not going to say anything about what she did in the shower, then neither is she.

"I sleep on my side," she says into the darkness. "If I have a nightmare, don't poke me. Just say my name."

"You have nightmares, Lizzie?"

She nods, realizes he can't see her. 

"Yes, almost every night since ... since Tom."

"Oh Lizzie." His voice is so warm. "I wish I could put my arms around you and hold you. Tell you everything is going to be all right."

Liz scoots a little closer.

She wishes that too.

After everything they've been through today, it seems ridiculous to feel so shy. They almost died together, horribly. In retrospect, surviving until midnight would have been very unlikely.

Liz wouldn't want to have survived after doing what The Miner wanted her to do. Would Red have been willing to live with that kind of permanent injury? It's not the sort of thing she could ever ask him. How would she even say, do you care about being a man?

"Red?"

"Yes, Lizzie?"

"You can put your head on my shoulder, if you'd like."

Silence. Just long enough for her to feel a lump forming in her throat. Then he slides closer.

"I'd like that very much."

"Here."

She hooks one arm under his neck, feels him adjusting himself until he's draped halfway over her body, their bare legs entwined. His head tucked into the curve of her neck. His right arm curves over her, his bandaged hand dangling off the side of the bed.

He smells soapy clean and his skin radiates heat.

Red sighs in deep contentment.

"You are the most ridiculously wonderful woman," he mumbles. "Have I told you how special you are?"

***

Liz awakens suddenly to the pressure of a heavy body pinning her down on her back.

She opens her eyes. It's too dark to see anything, but all at once the memories come flooding back.

Red. 

The Miner. 

Their flight into the countryside.

Red is no longer tucked at her side. He's lying completely on top of her, whimpering.

"Red?" she whispers. Nothing. Liz squirms and gets one hand free, pokes him in the ribs.

"Red. You're squashing me."

He gives a little shake of his head, nuzzles the side of her neck, his beard stubble prickly against her skin.

"Lizzie," he mumbles. She can tell the exact moment he awakens.

"Hello?" he says cautiously, not moving a muscle.

"Red, it's just me."

"Lizzie? Are we dreaming?"

She pokes him again.

"No, why would I dream that you're squashing me?"

"Lizzie?"

She can't tell him he's been whimpering like a frightened child. She's almost in tears already.

Red raises his head, presses soft kisses against her neck, then moves up to her lips. She can feel the cracked, dry skin of his lips as he kisses her, tastes the tang of his blood.

"Red, what are you doing?" she whispers.

"Kissing you," he whispers back. Dips his head for another long kiss.

"Why are you kissing me?" she asks, squirming again and managing to extricate her other hand. She runs both hands up and down his ribs, stroking him through the T-shirt. Trying for comfort, not arousal.

"To determine if this is a dream."

"It's a dream, Red." 

He's very still. Then he slides sideways toward the center of the bed. Away from her embrace. Liz turns her head, clutches at him.

"Stay close, Red," she breathes into his ear. Hooks her left leg over his right, tugs his head back towards her shoulder. He resists, then collapses against her.

The pain pills. He's already asleep again.

When the whimpering resumes, more than an hour later, Liz trembles, comes instantly awake.

"Shh, Red, you're dreaming," she whispers. Presses kisses to the top of his head. The short stubble of his haircut, fuzz in the center, smooth taut skin above his forehead.

"Lizzie?" he mumbles. Tilting his head back, raising his mouth for her kiss. 

She kisses him back, allows herself to revel in the touch of his mouth for just a few moments.

"It's a dream, Red. Just a dream," she whispers again, and he slides back away from her into sleep.

***

Liz awakens to a shaft of pale light. The space beside her in bed is empty, the covers pulled aside.

She sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes. That was anything but a restful night.

Red is standing at the open door of the small house, looking out. He's still wearing nothing but the T-shirt, legs apart, rocking slightly on his heels. 

Some of his welts are oozing, some of them beginning to scab.

His bandaged hands hang loose at his sides.

"What you looking at?" she asks him, trying to comb out her rumpled hair with her fingers.

"The ocean," he responds. "I can just barely see the ocean. So perfectly azure-blue that it practically disappears into the sky."

"The ocean can see you too," she can't help but respond.

He chuckles.

"There's nobody out here for miles, Lizzie," he responds, turning toward her for just a moment. Allowing her just a glimpse of his truly impressive morning arousal before looking back out into the sunshine.

Liz swallows hard, her mouth filling with moisture. She's never felt anything like this, desire like a painful cramp inside her, turning her molten, speechless.

She wants him in her mouth.

She can't think of any possible way to say that. Not alone out here, with him completely dependent on her.

The silence between them lengthens, uncomfortably.

"Lizzie, why did you bring me here?"

He's still looking away from her as he asks the question.

Liz rubs her eyes again. Being simultaneously tired, confused and deeply aroused makes it difficult to think. What is he trying to ask her?

"Because you said it would be the safest place?" she responds cautiously.

"Why didn't you insist that we wait for the FBI? Or take me somewhere to meet up with my people?"

Sitting cross-legged, Liz links her hands together, rubs at her scar for reassurance. Shakes her head, trying to come up with an answer.

She's not fully awake, she hasn't had coffee. She wants Red back in bed with her, curled against her, for this conversation.

His formerly light tone sours.

"Hoping to get me alone, get some answers to your questions?"

Liz flushes, remembering how she asked The Miner for the answers Red has refused her.

"Because that's not going to work." His tone is flat, uncompromising.

Liz stares down at her scar.

"Don't be so paranoid, Red." 

She doesn't know what else to say. All she could think about on that long drive was getting him safe, protecting him. Protecting his dignity. That is, other than her own feelings. Which she's not planning to discuss with him, either.

"You think I'm overly paranoid? After what just happened as a result of that botched little operation?"

She looks up to see Red standing at the foot of the bed, gesticulating angrily at her with a complete and utter disregard for his lack of clothing.

Liz can't help herself. She stares at him, licks her lips.

"Really, Lizzie?!? Really?!?" 

He's working himself up into a towering rage.

"Mmhmm."

The sound just slips out. 

Liz stares up at him, appalled.

Red blinks down at her, his pupils dilating.

"Lizzie?"

"Red?"

She crawls slowly to the foot of the bed on her hands and knees. Licks her lips again.

"I'm not going to tell you anything," Red breathes out in a low tone, stepping a little closer.

He reaches out with his heavily bandaged right hand, only his fingertips visible. Traces her parted lips with the tip of his index finger.

She licks his finger, trembles beneath his assessing gaze.

"Don't start something you're not prepared to finish," he warns her.

In response she opens her mouth, reaches for him. 

His body is warm from the sunshine. He still tastes delicious.

It takes him much longer, this time, long enough for her to start learning what he likes.

Her fingers gentle. Her tongue firmer, faster. No part of him is off limits, Red just widens his stance, groans as she explores him with her touch, then her mouth.

Afterward, he lowers himself to his knees on the floor with a grunt of pain.

"Pull off those boxers and slide on down here for me, Lizzie," he tells her, his deep voice husky and low. "Let me get a good look at you. Yes, that's good. A little wider."

Liz positions herself at the very end of the bed where Red wants her. Gasps loudly at the first dexterous swipe of his tongue. She's as loud as he was quiet.

It's a good thing that there's nobody around for miles.


	13. This Brief Time

Three days later, Red wakes just after dawn to find Liz propped up on one elbow, dreamily watching him sleep.

"Yes, Lizzie?" he asks her. 

In answer she grins wickedly at him and disappears beneath the covers.

Her confident mouth is warm and wet. He can tell at once that she's planning to take her time.

"You know, you don't have to wait for me to wake up," he informs her, closing his eyes and allowing his mind to drift as she pleasures him.

He's able to lie on his side for short periods now, although he still can't sit down properly. He eats his meals in bed, lying on his stomach or his side.

Red loves how carefully Liz feeds him. 

How generously she treats his battered body, making feel whole again, normal, despite the slow healing of his wounds.

Liz doesn't seem to want anything in the world right now but to be physically close to him. 

Such a bittersweet relief. Tenderness where he anticipated only disgust.

He'll take whatever she's willing to give, for as long as she'll have him. Whatever her end game.

There's something she's not telling him. He knows her well enough by now. And also, that she'll tell him. Eventually.

***

Red lies on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, as Liz feeds him blueberry granola. She scoops each bite precisely, with just the balance of cereal to milk in the spoon that he prefers.

This is the last of the milk in the cooler. They're down to canned goods, energy bars, and fruit from the small, overgrown garden for the next few days. At least they have plenty of water.

Red wants to stay here as long as possible. This brief time with Liz is an unprecedented, deeply restorative slice out of his everyday existence.

He's tried each of the phones in his luggage, but there is no cell service here. Liz has refused to drive him down into town to call, in case they attract some hostile attention.

Dembe must know that he's here. The white SUV has surely been visible by now to an accessible satellite, despite the daily afternoon rain.

"Do you want anything else?" Liz asks, setting the bowl and spoon on the floor. 

He tilts his head, lids his eyes at her. She bends in, kisses him repeatedly with soft little sounds of appreciation. 

Red would never have guessed Liz would be so vocal. Just noises though, no protestations of affection. Certainly no pretense at any warmer feeling.

"I'll wash this out. Be right back."

She drops one more kiss on his head and takes their breakfast dishes outside to rinse them and set them in the sun to dry.

Her mouth tasted of black coffee. Liz saved the last of the milk for him. He's full, and warm, and so sleepy. Satiated from their early morning exertions.

Red pillows his head on his forearms, positioning his bandaged hands to avoid placing any weight on his palms, and allows himself to daydream. 

Liz isn't here out of a sense of duty, or pity, or as atonement for the punishment she inflicted on him when following The Miner's orders. She doesn't have an agenda, he doesn't need to be wary or suspicious, he doesn't need to keep reminding himself to stay in character. To stay detached.

Liz has fallen as deeply in love with him as he has with her. In his daydream his hands are healed, and he caresses her as they embrace fully, making love for hours. And she tells him she loves him. And she forgives him. Even for the burn on her hand.

And he tells her he loves her too. And she cries with joy in his arms.

And they make love again, and again. He knows exactly how. 

Red has been thinking, dreaming about her, for such a very, very long time.

***

Liz returns to the small house to find Red sound asleep on his stomach, his head pillowed on his muscular forearms, fine hairs glinting in the sunlight. His lips are tilted up in a smile.

Her heart turns over with mingled joy and grief.

He's so precious to her, and they have so little time left.

Red has refused to make love with her, citing their lack of birth control, but she knows there's more to it than that. He's invited her to make free of his body with her hands and her mouth. Setting careful boundaries. Keeping his distance.

She wants him so badly her desires feel irrational. She never longed for Tom Keen this way. Never desired any man with such intensity. Liz always thought she was born a little cold. Curious, rather than yearning.

Her body comes alive now, just looking at Red. His near-constant state of nudity inflames her. She's one breath, one slip of self-control, away from completely embarrassing herself by begging him to make love to her. 

But she can feel him pull back, over and over, becoming aloof whenever she feels closest to him, most intimate.

This is just temporary. She has to keep remembering that.

***

Aram sits at the far end of the conference table, outwardly calm, inwardly shaking. The other agents at the briefing have left an empty chair on either side of him, as usual.

He still has his badge, and his role to play as they continue the debrief, but it's clear that everyone, except perhaps Cooper, blames him for the mess. No more, though, than he blames himself.

The worst of it is that one agent reported locating a torture room with blood and other fluids on the floor, a dead guard near the door.

That room was destroyed in one of the subsequent explosions as the frustrated teams tried to blast their way through the maze of corridors.

Aram is very much afraid that Liz was tortured by The Miner. It's the only thing that would explain her absence, her cryptic voice mail message for Cooper. The Assistant Director agrees, has put her on extended medical leave.

They never found The Miner, dead or alive. Until Reddington returns, they don't have any way of locating him, if in fact he escaped.

Reddington has probably whisked her away to some expensive private hospital.

Aram will have to work up his courage to apologize to her. He's almost as frightened about that as he is about meeting Reddington again.

His cousins are safe. That's the only good thing he can imagine could possibly come out of this horrible mess.


	14. Departure

"That's the last of the food."

Liz looks around the kitchen as if expecting to find something edible they have inexplicably overlooked.

"It's time to go, Lizzie."

Red doesn't want to leave. But he's sufficiently healed to summon his jet, to meet Dembe's undoubtedly worried eyes without flinching.

She sighs.

"I know, Red. But I don't want to."

In answer, he holds out his arms, allows her to snuggle against his chest. Her hands slide up under his shirt, stroking the scarred skin of his back. 

His hands are still bruised, but he could pull a trigger, if need be. That's good enough.

"Help me get dressed," he whispers against her hair. She nods, holds him just a little tighter.

His clothing bag is hanging in the narrow cupboard behind the headboard of the bed. Liz pulls out a suit and the coordinating shirt.

"There's a hanger for the ties," he tells her.

She fishes around in the garment bag, holds it up and allows him to choose.

It feels oddly like being armored for battle as Liz carefully dresses him. He could manage most of this on his own, but he allows her to assist him.

It feels like some private ritual. As if with every piece of clothing, she's packing him away. Saying good-bye.

Fully dressed, hands unbandaged for the first time since they arrived, he stands before her. She's not wearing anything but one of his T-shirts.

She tilts her head to one side, then hurries back to the closet. Fetches his cream fedora, holds it out.

He bends his head, waits until she places it on his head. Straightens it a bit once he's upright again.

Liz looks around the room as if confused about what to do next.

"You may want to put on some pants, at the very least," Red suggests. Hoping for a smile.

Her linen suit and white blouse are still piled on the chair where she set them the first night.

Liz pulls off Red's T-shirt and gets dressed without ceremony. He just stands there, watching her. Treasuring these last few glimpses of her body.

Red bends down, picks up the T-shirt she was wearing, still warm from her skin, and tosses it into his luggage. Zips the bag closed.

"Let me take that," Liz says, as he reaches for his bags. 

He shrugs and steps back. His hands are still so tender.

Her expression is remote, her blue eyes glittering. It's as if the woman he woke up with is already far, far away.

***

Liz makes several trips, loads everything into the trunk.

She scrubbed out the back seat and the carpet as best she could, and left the windows open after the rain stopped the previous afternoon.

Looking up toward the house, Liz watches as Red locks the door, slides the key under the mat.

She can't start weeping. She has to drive. She has to open the gates, and the locks.

She has to be brave. 

Liz slides into the front seat, kicks up the air conditioning with her window wide open.

Better.

Red heaves himself into the passenger seat with a wince. Makes a face at the smell.

"Unbelievable," he comments as he rolls down his window as well.

Liz puts the SUV in reverse and turns around at the first wide spot. They both stare forward as she guides the vehicle carefully down the narrow dirt track. It seems to take a much shorter time to return to the highway than it did to get here in the dark.

"Back to Oahu?" she asks him.

"The airport," he responds, pulling a phone from his pocket and fiddling with it. It beeps as he dials.

"Dembe!" he exclaims happily, holding the phone to his ear. "No, I haven't received any of your messages. Do please tell me that you're at the airport?"

Liz tries to concentrate on driving, on the physical sensation of being in a car again. It feels strange to be wearing a bra again. Her heels feel even stranger, after so many days of bare feet.

He's sitting right beside her. And as far away as the other side of the planet. Which is surely where he'll be, very soon.

"Dial Cooper for me, will you?" she asks, as he hangs up the phone. 

"Of course."

Red punches in Cooper's cell number, listens as it rings. 

"Harold! I have Agent Keen on the line for you."

He hands her the phone with a smirk.

"Agent Keen! Is everything alright?"

His voice sounds so loud. It's been more than a week since she spoke to anyone other than Red.

Liz tucks the phone between her ear and her shoulder so she can keep both hands on the wheel.

"Yes, sir, I'm fine," she responds. "I'm on my way back to Oahu now, actually."

"Completely recovered, have you?" he asks after a brief pause.

"Sir?"

Red glances over at her, blatantly eavesdropping.

"Agent Keen, our local agents found evidence of torture, so yes, I'm asking you, are you alright?"

Liz rolls her eyes at Red. He's staring straight forward, his mouth working the way it does when he's upset. Funny, how seldom she's seen that expression in the last week.

She tucks that thought away for later.

"Yes sir, it was pretty horrific, but no permanent damage," she says at last. "I'm completely recovered now."

Red turns his head away as if to look out the window. She can't tell what he's thinking. All she can see is the back of his elegant cream-colored hat.

"Recovered sufficiently for debriefing?" he asks her.

Liz swallows.

"I'd like to leave Hawaii as soon as possible," she says. That at least is the honest truth. "Is there any way that debriefing could wait until I get back home?"

"I'll make it right," Cooper assures her. "I'll be expecting you bright and early on Monday morning."

"Yes sir," she responds, before hanging up the phone. Liz stares down at the phone's small screen, then back at the road. The date, the time. Today is a Friday. She's somehow lost track of the days of the week.

All she can think about is Red.


	15. Worth the Wait

"You let Harold believe that you were the one who was ... tortured?" Red asks her, giving her an impersonal glance that doesn't fool her at all. His eyes are bright, and the corner of his left eye twitches briefly when he speaks the word.

Liz nods.

They drive for a few more minutes in silence.

"The next turn is the airport," Red announces.

Liz signals, slides over into the right lane and slows down. Traffic is already piling up in advance of the exit. 

"I assume you'll be flying back with me?" he asks her in a conversational tone.

Liz shrugs. 

She doesn't want to leave him, but she can't imagine sitting through such a long flight while pretending he doesn't matter to her in front of Dembe. At least she can drop off the rental car before she books herself a flight.

His voice sharpens, until he sounds more like the overbearing character she's dealt with so often in the past.

"Please don't tell me you're considering staying in Hawaii for even a single night?"

Liz shakes her head again.

"No, I know that I need to get back. But if I can catch a red eye, then I can sleep through most of the trip."

He laughs, a strange note in his voice.

"You can sleep on my jet. I assure you, I do it all the time."

"Where do I turn?" she asks him.

"That way," he leans forward, gestures, then reaches up to tug his hat forward over his eyes.

When they pull up to the security gate, he hands her an unmarked key card. They are ushered through without ceremony.

Damn. She has no badge, no wallet, no money.

Everything is at the local FBI headquarters in Honolulu, unless someone has thoughtfully carried her purse back to Post Office for her.

She never wants to see any of those agents, ever again. Which leaves her with only one choice.

Liz pulls up to the plane, shuts off the engine, and takes a deep breath.

"Yes, please, Red," she says, the lie sour on her tongue. "I'd love to fly back with you."

He tilts his head at her, unsmiling. As if he's looking for something in her expression and not finding it. She tries as hard as she can to smile normally back at him, but her eyes are filling with tears.

Red is being his usual, helpful, generous self. Why can't she just play along? It's time to get back to their working relationship. Liz just needs to follow his lead, and everything will be fine.

Dembe approaches, and Red climbs out of the car and embraces him. As she watches, he gestures at the car, then at the trunk.

Liz climbs out of the car, walks slowly to Red's side. She can do this.

"Dembe! Good to see you again," she greets him.

At least that came out normally. She's always liked Dembe, wanted to get to know him better. Maybe they can talk on the flight.

"I'm happy to see you as well, Elizabeth." His smile is brief but brilliant.

Red takes her upper arm in a firm grip. Almost as if he's afraid she'll change her mind.

"Let's get on board. There's a delicious bottle of Scotch that's calling my name so loudly I can hear it from here."

He hustles her across the tarmac, up the steps.

His plane is immaculate, burnished leather and freshly vacuumed carpet.

Red seats himself slowly, a little gingerly, on the long seat in front of a table with an ice bucket and a selection of bottled hard liquor. He removes his hat and tosses it on the table.

"There are glasses just over your head," he points.

Liz turns, lifts three crystal glasses from the overhead rack that hangs above the bar on the opposite side of the plane. Sets them down in front of him.

The she looks around before perching on a round stool in front of the bar as he starts pouring their drinks.

"No, come and sit with me."

Red pats the seat beside him, looks over at her expectantly.

Too much. Too soon.

She can't just sit next to him and not touch him, not lean over for his kiss.

"Lizzie, what's wrong?"

He lifts a glass, holds it out to her.

She slides off the stool, approaches, takes the glass. Swirls the dark liquid around with her preferred two ice cubes.

He doesn't just know how he likes her drinks. He knows her body, her career goals, her favorite memories from childhood. They spent days alone together, talking. 

Actually, she did a lot of the talking.

Why can't he understand that this is hard for her?

"Lizzie?"

She retreats to the stool and takes a sip, feeling a wild urge to rush off the plane.

Dembe enters, carrying Red's luggage.

"You have no bags?' he asks her.

She shakes her head. "No, no bags."

Dembe looks over at Red, then back at her.

"Is there anything you need, before we depart?" he asks her courteously.

Her passport. A time machine. An unbroken, unbreakable heart.

"No, thank you," Liz says, taking another drink.

"Then I'll let the pilot know we're ready," he says, scooping up his glass before walking forward to the front of the plane.

Red glances after him, then leans forward and whispers rapidly.

"Lizzie, it hurts me to move at all, but if you don't come over here, I'm going to get up and sit over there."

He will, too. 

Liz bites her lip, walks slowly across the center aisle of the plane and sits down next to Red.

"Lizzie, tell me what's wrong," he demands. "God knows we all have our secrets, but you're acting as if I've done something to upset you, and I can assure you, I've racked my brains without success for what that might be."

Liz shakes her head. Takes a deep swallow of her scotch. Holds out her glass for a refill.

"It's not you, Red, it's me," she says.

He hands her the glass.

"Details, Lizzie." He takes a sip of his scotch. Catches and holds her gaze. "You can start by telling me whatever you've been hiding about The Miner."

Liz flushes. 

"I asked him about my father," she confesses, staring down into her glass. "But he couldn't find out anything new."

"Ah." 

Red takes another sip of his scotch, frowning. Liz glances over, then away.

He doesn't seem angry, more just pensive.

"You didn't want to come on this flight with me."

It's not a question.

She shakes her head.

"Why not, Lizzie?" His voice is very gentle.

She shakes her head again.

"You do know I'll never treat you with anything but the utmost respect?"

She nods unhappily. He's just making it worse.

"Lizzie, I will defend you, protect you, turn myself inside out for you, but I cannot read your mind."

Do they really have to do this now? On an airplane, with a long flight ahead of them? With Dembe likely to walk in at any minute?

He's still looking at her. Waiting.

"Your turn, then, Red."

She takes another drink, notices her hand is shaking, sets the glass down with a clink.

He gives her a quizzical look.

"Lack of birth control wasn't the only reason you wouldn't make love with me," she says. "Tell me what was?"

He flushes immediately and for a second Liz is reminded of his face when she stepped into that room and saw him chained to the pole.

Shock and then shame. Brought swiftly under control.

"I didn't want to, like that," he says finally. "I couldn't even touch you."

Liz shrugs. There's more. With Red, there's always more. "Tell me the reason. The real reason."

He shakes his head.

"I answered your question," she says. Then she just sits and waits.

There's a long silence before Red finally lets out a little sigh.

"You allow me no shred of vanity, do you?" he says quietly. "Very well. I didn't want to because I have imagined, dreamed, that first time with you so many times. Hopelessly, without any shred of evidence that anything of the kind could ever be possible."

Liz stares at Red, trying to fit his words into what she knows to be true about him. About them.

He laughs ruefully, scratches his head.

"I wanted to be a masterful, memorable lover for you. You had already seen me in the depths of ..." 

Red stops and swallows hard.

Liz reaches over and very gently takes his hand.

"You turned me down because you thought, you wanted ...?" 

Her voice trails off. 

He rubs his thumb comfortingly over her hand.

That small gesture is the very last straw.

Liz drop his hand, turns to face him, her hands twisting in her lap. Rubbing hard at her scar. She's so upset she has to calm down a little just to be able to speak.

He blinks at her, holds very still. As bracing himself for a blow.

"Red, I would love you and want you if The Miner cut off your arms and legs. If he beat you into a pulp. If you had some terrible disease, if ... if ...." 

Liz takes a swallow of her scotch and chokes briefly. 

Red is staring at her without moving.

She tries again.

"So you're saying you want us to wait until some perfect time in the future?"

That doesn't make any sense. He didn't say anything about the future. She should never have gotten on this plane with him. She's making such a fool of herself. Embarrassing them both.

Now at last Red moves, shaking his head, swallowing the last of his drink. He reaches over and takes her hands. Separates them. Strokes the sore tissue of her scar very gently.

"Tell me the part where you love me and want me, again?" he whispers. "Tell me what that means to you, Lizzie."

She shakes her head, angrily.

"Please. I just want to hear those words again."

"I love you, and I want you, Red."

Red's eyes are still searching her face. Liz leans forward slowly, kisses him softly, then with more confidence as he responds.

Kissing him is even better with his hands roaming over her body for the very first time. She wants to climb into his lap, rub herself against him, but she knows he can barely manage to sit upright. He should probably lie down on his side, soon.

"How long do we have to wait?" she asks, her hands busy with his tie. "I mean, I'm willing to wait, so it can be perfect for you."

Red laughs a little incredulously, shaking his head between kisses. He's got her jacket off already, his hands sliding up under her blouse.

"A week? I can probably last a week," she offers, unbuttoning his shirt as fast as she can.

"Lizzie, I think I'm going to have to modify that fantasy to include an airplane ..."

Red breaks off as Dembe steps into the cabin from the cockpit.

Liz freezes, looking up to meet Dembe's amused dark eyes with an effort.

"Are congratulations in order?" he asks them, beaming in anticipation of the answer.

Red turns and looks at Liz. Tilts his head, smiles at her encouragingly.

"Yes?"

She shrugs helplessly.

"Sure. Yes."

"Then congratulations," Dembe raises his glass, waits for Red to clink glasses with him. Then he finishes his scotch and leans over to pour himself another. Gives Red another wide smile. "I'll be in the cockpit, keeping the pilot company."

Dembe winks at Liz and departs as she starts to giggle. 

Red blinks at her, a glass of scotch in one hand and her lacy white bra in the other. He stares from one object to the other.

"You do realize that we just became engaged?" he asks her in a somewhat bemused tone.

Liz grins happily at him. She can't resist.

"We can always wait for the wedding night, if you'd like?"

Eyes wide, Red looks back at her in momentary disbelief, then starts to laugh.

"I think we're done with waiting, aren't we, Lizzie?"

"Mmhmm," she responds.

***

In front of everyone at the Post Office, Liz flings her arms around Aram.

"Congratulate me, Aram! We're engaged!"

Aram looks down at the ring sparkling on her finger, up into Red's knowing eyes.

Puts out his hand, feels the older man shake it firmly.

He can't tell them now, allow his treachery to cloud their happiness. His punishment will be to keep his secret, without any hope of forgiveness.

"Congratulations," he responds, "I hope you will both be very happy together."

Red has his arm around her, and Liz is flashing a wide, bright smile Aram's never seen before.

"You can count on that," says Red firmly.

Liz looks up at Red, her heart in her eyes. Her joy pierces Aram, the palpable presence of a type of love he's never been offered.

"We certainly will. Red was worth the wait."


End file.
